


The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

by kuwdora



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Chrismas in July Mylar Ficathon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-15
Updated: 2008-10-15
Packaged: 2018-01-27 21:45:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1723550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuwdora/pseuds/kuwdora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ocean’s full of ominous waves that rise and fall in sync to an invisible metronome, soundless and replete with images of drowning. There’s no wind, no sound beyond his the squish of sandals and inquisitive noises in Mohinder’s head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://feyuca.livejournal.com/profile)[**feyuca**](http://feyuca.livejournal.com/) for the Christmas in July Ficathon at [](http://mylar-fic.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://mylar-fic.livejournal.com/)**mylar_fic**. Prompts used were "angst/sea salt." This is technically a stand-in fic for the ficathon since the real story I started turned into a novel on me and I wasn't ever going to have it finished by the deadline. Aaaaaand I missed the deadline with _this_ story by... quite a few months. I had this finished on time (prior to season 3), but I couldn't let it go just yet because all the words didn't sound right. Um, better late than never, right? 'Sides, I'm told it makes more sense now that season 3's started.
> 
> [](http://akukorax.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://akukorax.livejournal.com/) **akukorax** smacked me a few times when I was being a little too neurotic about some stuff in here, so I'm glad she was there to remind me of the sense I have.

Wet, cold feet.

The rest of Mohinder’s body is unbearably warm. He can’t remember the last time he could wiggle his toes and wants nothing more than to strip free of his shirt. But he doesn’t want his back to become raw from the sun exposure, so he resists the urge. Instead, he strides across the surface of the ocean, water lapping at his ankles, dampening the hem of his pants. The waves aren’t any more or less turbulent than the ones he remembers from back home.

That ocean has been far too distant for far too long.

He’s been walking for awhile now, looking for a place to go. He doesn’t know where he is or even why he’s even here or which way he needs to go.

He covers his eyes in order to study at the vastness before him and save his eyes from the sun’s unrelenting reflection. There’s nothing to see except the horizon where the sky kissed the ocean—or perhaps it was the tide rising up to meet the sky. They’re two different shades of blue that have nothing more in common other than they share the same planet, some of the same molecules. The sky, oxygen; a necessity for life and omnipresent. The ocean, currents and ecosystems across the world, encompassing nearly all of the Earth. But saltwater was useless for humans unless it went through an extensive desalination process, a synthetic process powered by human ingenuity.

The ocean’s full of ominous waves that rise and fall in sync to an invisible metronome, soundless and replete with images of drowning. There’s no wind, no sound beyond his the squish of sandals and inquisitive noises in Mohinder’s head.

The ocean has no answers for him.

He shades his eyes again and turns around, somehow knowing that if he were to zoom out on his position, he’d be seen standing over tiny print on a map that reads _Pacific Ocean_ , alone; between two continents that were a world apart in more ways than one. Mohinder’s so daunted by the expansive frontier he has to remind himself to oblige his lungs with a deep breath.

He’s grateful that he still can breathe.

Movement in his peripheral vision forces him to look down, eyes roaming the water and stomach knotting in abrupt curiosity. There’s something there snapping under the water, splashing enough to differentiate itself from the normal feel of the waves. Mohinder’s sure of it’s presence but the shimmering light of the sun prevents him from seeing any shapes beneath the waves. The white foam is quickly lost in the trough, absorbed by the heavier blues, giving Mohinder no point of reference for what he saw.

He squats and reaches out, fingers skimming the surface. There’s a kind of resistance that keeps him from digging deeper. Somehow it doesn’t annoy him as much as it normally would, but the movement he saw is gone as quickly as it came. Perhaps he imagined it.

Mohinder’s stomach does an unexpected backflip as his hands begin to sink in the water. The resistance is still there beneath his fingertips, but it’s more pliable the more he gives. He sinks to his wrists and palms the barrier, puzzlement strumming him like an acoustic guitar full of melancholic notes containing words and feelings he can’t quite parse. The searing cold sends pins and needles running up his arms and sliding down the curve his back, making him to jerk away as if he was burned by a hot stove rather than icy water.

He kneads the inside of his hands with his thumbs, coaxing the circulation back, and stares blankly at the water that surrounds him. It looks like an ocean, dwarfing his existence in a shroud of blue, feels like an ocean, soaking his extremities. Smells like an ocean, salty air lining his throat, but it doesn’t sound like an ocean. Absolute silence envelopes him except for the sound of his hands coming together.

He’s disappointed and flummoxed but he stands anyway and dries his hands on his shirt. His cheek muscles hurt from squinting against the glare. He’s almost worried that his face will stick.

Mohinder huffs in surprise and nearly falls forward, sinking past his ankles. He lifts his foot and steps backwards and stumbles, feet catching on insistent, thrashing waves that feel determined to jostle him. Mohinder fidgets, looking around for—he doesn’t know what he’s looking for. There’s nothing. He only has himself to rely on, but the water’s cold—too cold and so _thick_ —consistency now like molasses. Panic swells inside his chest—him subsumed by choppy waves—his personal watery grave. That picture makes him jump forward several paces in an attempt to find a spot where he doesn’t sink but the more he moves, the more he sinks. He twists his body, struggling to pull his foot free of the water and hops until he unconsciously falls into a standing tree position.

The cold continues to seep into his skin and goosebumps crawl up his legs, spreading to his back and shoulders but standing upright and motionless, arms and shoulders loose, he doesn’t sink any further.

Mohinder breathes.

His heartbeat is loud in his ears as he counts his breaths until he no longer teeters, until he no longer feels bloated with anxiety. His face still aches. Mohinder slowly unfolds his arms to rub face and then crack his knuckles in resentment. It was futile to keep walking when he doesn’t know what direction he’s going, but at the same time he doesn’t want to stand there and wait. He doesn’t know what he was waiting for. Dehydration, most likely. He doesn’t want to face the thought of being out long enough for that possibility, but the sun beating down on his shoulders reminds him of how uncomfortable he still feels. If he was going to continue sinking whenever he moved, well, he could plant his feet and try to remain still until he he regrouped because he’s still uncomfortably warm. Warm enough that he unfurls from his standing tree position and carefully squats again, wobbling a little and tempts the water, splashing his face and rubbing the back of his hot neck.

A tranquil sigh, magnified by the silence, arises from behind him, sending familiar shivers down his back, the kind that ordinarily ended with his nerves on fire from the rush of adrenaline and fear.

Mohinder looks over his shoulder, water trickling into his eyes. The usual lump of trepidation in his stomach is missing when he sees that the embellished noise came from Sylar. He turns, not even surprised to find him reclining in a large easy chair, legs draped over one arm and head propped on the other like some adolescent. He’s wearing tarnished blue jeans and a garishly red t-shirt that makes Mohinder’s eyes strain even more than the sun. Even so, he’s sure he sees a faint glimmer of a wallet chain dangling from Sylar’s pocket.

Sylar turns to look at him and jealousy spikes in Mohinder when he sees trendy sunglasses covering his eyes. Sylar gives him a brief wave before he refolds his arms and sighs appreciatively.

“Beautiful day. Wish I had some sunscreen, actually,” he says, rubbing his face and arms. “If there’s anything I hate, it’s getting burned,” he says, rubbing his bare arms.

The pitch of Sylar’s voice is crystal clear in the nothingness, reaching Mohinder’s ears as if he was standing right next to him. Mohinder looks around. There’s no shade, no oasis of palm fronds or umbrella and beach towel. No beach, for that matter. No cover whatsoever. It’s the perfect place to get burned if one doesn’t come prepared. As far as Mohinder knows, Sylar’s always prepared. But he wasn’t special in wanting to avoid burns.

“Doesn’t everyone?” Mohinder asks, bridging the distance between them, though with some difficulty. It was like trying to walk on a waterbed.

“You’d think so, but some people like the sun-damaged look,” Sylar says, leg bouncing over the armrest, gazing upward at the cloudless sky. His cavalier attitude is oddly appealing, yet confusing because Mohinder can’t recall a time when he’s seen Sylar as idle as now. But that doesn’t concern him so much because he’s walked for so long with blocks of ice for feet and the devastating warmth on his back, lethargy seeping into his very bones, heat and ice binding together to create a new form of torture that he didn’t know was imaginable. It was easy to envy Sylar’s relaxing position.

He begins circling Sylar, careful of his distance, but just as wary of where he’s stepping. “How long have you been sitting there?” There’s been nothing for miles and then some, so his appearance is unusual, yet Mohinder feels a bleating sense of deja vu pass over him when Sylar laughs and scratches his clean-shaven chin. It’s not until he passes in front of the chair that Sylar lays the side of his face flat on the armrest, watching him waver ankle-deep in the water.

Sylar shrugs, shoulders hindered from the angle. “Awhile,” he says, voice bland and unusually forthright. Mohinder’s not accustomed to that kind of response, least of all from Sylar. He shifts his weight, water sloshing in his sandals, reminding him of numb feet and he sinks even more. Sylar’s honesty doesn’t change the fact that the nothingness around him hasn’t changed. Except something _has_ changed because Sylar is sitting right in front of him, embedded in a comfortable recliner that wasn’t there a moment ago. Sylar couldn’t have appeared from nowhere. Moreover, Mohinder’s attention to whatever was in the water must have done something when he touched it because he wasn’t sinking before that contact. Mohinder shakes his head and starts another lap around the chair, slowly tightening his circuit. The two inconsistencies could be related.

“How come I didn’t see you?” he asks, not expecting a second candid answer.

“I don’t know,” Sylar says, swinging his legs in front and reclines with an air of sovereignty. “And here I figured you’d be the type to stop and ask for directions, too. You surprised me when you didn’t, but if it’s because you didn’t see me, well...”

Mohinder drags a heel for a several paces and then kicks water at Sylar, darkening denim-clad shins, the least he could do even if it was childish. “I wouldn’t take directions from you if my life depended on it.” This wasn’t Sylar’s court. This was nowhere and mere a coincidence that he showed up.

Sylar laughs again. “Talk to me after 40 days out here. No food, no water, no friends. I promise you’d be singing a different tune.”

Mohinder counts backwards from five, longing for the feel of a cricket bat in his hands. The crunch of bone and cartilage would be invariably different than the feel than that of a ball, but the satisfaction from the hearty thwack to Sylar’s face would be just as fulfilling.

“I’m sorry, I’m not in the mood for armchair psychiatry today,” Mohinder says, turning on a slippery heel and walking away, the quicksand feel of the water replaced by icy knives that slice his ankles. He doesn’t need to be lectured in the middle of nowhere on how he would or wouldn’t act by Sylar of all inhuman things.

Mohinder’s still uneven on his feet, gradually sinking but his attempts at moving aren’t so cumbersome anymore.

He’ll find his own way. He’s crossed the Pacific before.

“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute,” Sylar calls and sound of splashing water escalates until he’s a few paces behind. Mohinder ignores him but Sylar jumps in front and walks backwards.

“I’m not used to you running away like that,” Sylar says, motioning indistinctly. “Usually you stand and talk and threaten until you’re blue in the face.” Or until Sylar made him blue and black and purple in the face.

Mohinder stops. He needs room to breathe and can’t do it with Sylar near. There’s a whole ocean, wide open space encompassing everything—including them, slinky water and naked sky—and yet Sylar still saw fit to be his satellite, the rock at the bottom of his proverbial shoe.

Sylar smiles at his visage of frustration, shoulders arching into another helpless shrug. There’s nothing else for Mohinder to see, nothing else to distract him from Sylar. He opens his mouth to give him a few choice words about what was going to turn blue from lack of oxygen in a moment, but stops dead in his tracks when he gets an eyeful of Sylar’s t-shirt.

On Sylar’s chest is his father’s face, stamped in the style of Che Guevara’s famous headshot, looking stern and full of conviction.

“What the hell is that?” Mohinder demands, pointing.

Sylar stops and looks, like he’s forgotten what he put on that morning, sunglasses sliding down his nose. When his eyes lock with his, Sylar grins. The specter of delight in Sylar’s face always drew an impermeable sense of dread and anger out of Mohinder. This wasn’t an exception.

“Oh, you like? It’s a new band. Group called The Avatars. I’m a _big_ fan. They’re punk, got a real ‘subvert the status quo’ message behind their music,” Sylar says, smoothing a hand over the revolutionary-looking image. His father’s face, commodified and re-packaged wholesale for punk rockers. Mohinder’s stomach churns at the sight. “It’s even got the tour dates on the back,” he says, turning to show him. “They started their world tour in 2007 and’ve been hitting some of the places in North America where they got popular. But they’ll be moving on to Europe and Asia eventually. I’ve been to all of their shows so far,” he says as an afterthought, looking over his shoulder at Mohinder.

“Their debut album is amazing. You know how some bands have only one or two good songs on their CDs? Well with these guys, _every_ one of their songs have something great about it. I love them. You even learn something new about their music at each show,” Sylar says excitedly, rocking on his heels, almost keeping Mohinder from reading the columns of tour dates that consisted of such places as New York, Los Angeles, Chicago. Places Mohinder already had some kind of association with. Future tour dates listed Lisbon, Paris, Munich, Krakow, Beijing and a host of others he doesn’t bother to read.

“They stop play smaller venues, too, but you can’t fit every little performance on a t-shirt,” Sylar says, rolling his shoulders and turning back to Mohinder.

“You sound like a groupie,” Mohinder says.

“You have no idea who I had to kill to get that gig,” Sylar says raising his eyebrows and he nudges the sunglasses up his nose.

Mohinder waves a hand dismissively pivots on a heel again, heading in the direction he came. Sylar’s chair is no longer in sight but that doesn’t concern him as much as the fact that Sylar continues to tail him. He can’t fathom what Sylar wants.

“Leave me alone,” Mohinder says. He doesn’t have a place to go, but _away_ from Sylar is a start.

“I’m here to help.”

Mohinder stops, counts to five again and faces Sylar who holds his hands up and takes a step backwards. “Honest.”

Mohinder laughs, on borderline hysterics. There was nothing more insane than standing in the middle of nowhere, having this kind of conversation with Sylar. “You help only yourself,” Mohinder says and wipes the sweat from his brow and massages his cheeks.

“Maybe not all the time,” he says, hands disappearing into pockets again, seeming, if possible, apprehensive in the way he tilts his chin to look skyward, lips coming together and corners of his mouth pulled tight. He doesn’t believe the wistful ambience about Sylar for a second.

Mohinder shivers, surprised by the cold bite of steel bleeding through worn cotton. He lifts an elbow, gaping awkwardly at a shoulder holster he doesn’t remember putting on or having a moment ago. That doesn’t keep him from reflexively pulling out the gun and pointing it at Sylar’s chest.

“I find that unlikely,” Mohinder says, smirk ebbing from his face. It’s difficult to hold facial expressions when squinting for so long.

“You win some, you lose some,” Sylar says to no one in particular, shoulders slumping, unaware or unconcerned by Mohinder and the gun.

Mohinder pulls the trigger and his heart promptly sinks. The pistol fires a thin line of water, right at the image of his father and the red cotton looks much like blood when soaked, making Sylar echo Mohinder’s shiver.

“With my crossbow, I shot the albatross,” Sylar says, looking down at the not-wound. “Really, now. You’re going to have to come up with something better,” he says with the husk of a frown shading his face.

Mohinder holds the gun up to his face and looks over the silver barrel at Sylar, a fear and curiosity bubbling in his chest. He’s more stunned by Sylar’s remarks than the fact that he has a toy gun in his hands. “Albatross. Are you serious,” Mohinder says, the hollow words sticking to the inside of his dry mouth. His fingers remain itchy on the trigger. Useless. Always useless. He heaves the gun over Sylar’s shoulder like a shot-put and they both follow it’s trajectory until it lands with a soundless splash, sinking beneath rocking waves in the distance. Sylar turns back to Mohinder and shakes his head.

“Here to help,” Sylar answers, lilt of his voice near sing-song as he kneads the soaked spot with a thumb.

Mohinder stops in mid-growl because something other than the cold water is moving underfoot. Again. Mohinder side-steps, trying to follow motion beneath the crashing waves. Whatever it is, it’s slow and not difficult for him to follow for several feet in a direction that doesn’t matter since everywhere leads to nowhere. He drops again, hands threading the cool water, searching for whatever he keeps seeing. Or maybe wasn’t seeing.

“Did you see that?” he asks.

Sylar’s pocket jingles and he walks behind Mohinder, peering over his shoulder. “Yeah.”

Mohinder frowns. It’s odd that Sylar walks _on_ the water just above the waves, unlike he, still ankle deep. It leaves him feeling unsettled. He wants to know _why_ , but the more immediate matter of what lies beneath has his attention.

“What is it?” Mohinder asks.

“Might be a body,” Sylar say. The indifference he’s projecting isn’t new.

“Who did you kill?” Mohinder asks, leaning into his palms and welcoming the chill, hoping the cold water would help stave his fermenting anger.

“Not me, not this time,” Sylar says, stepping in front of Mohinder. He taps the surface of the water and kicks some at him, bemused, giving Mohinder the distinct impression of playfulness. Mohinder’s hands come to rest on his knees and he studies Sylar ‘s loose demeanor which, he knew was a facade of some sort. He just didn’t know which one yet.

“You made that mistake before, jumping to conclusions about people. Can’t do that again,” Sylar says. Mohinder snorts despite the veracity of the statement. It was true. Mohinder has made mistakes before and learned from them, learned the hard way not to believe everything he sees or hears—many thanks to Sylar.

“I’m not the biggest problem the world has. This,” he points at the water. “This isn’t my fault,” Sylar says, strolling away from Mohinder.

He stands and reluctantly follows, for lack of better things to do beyond longing for circulation in his feet ever again.

“What do you mean ‘might be’? What could it be, if not a body? What is this place?” Mohinder asks. He’d let Sylar talk and he’d decide what the lies were later. Information gathering is an integral part of the scientific method.

“Junk,” he says mildly, pulling out the wallet chain to play with. “The Earth’s one big garbage can for people. A lot of it piles up here because because of the currents,” he says, dropping the chain and miming swirling with hands that Mohinder rarely saw restless. “Ecologically devastating, as you can imagine, but you can’t expect much from humanity. If they were mindful of the natural world and their roles in it, the whales would still be singing. Less death and destruction to other places. To people. It’s almost too late to do anything,” Sylar says matter-of-factly, gesturing to the water. Mohinder wants to roll his eyes, but his scrunched eyes makes it too painful to even try.

“Somehow I can’t imagine you wanting to save the whales,” Mohinder says, voice dry with sarcasm and parched throat. He walks in tandem with Sylar now, but sure to keep his distance, wondering if Sylar even hears the ridiculous things coming from his mouth. Mohinder knew better. Sylar and altruism couldn’t coexist. Save the whales. Here to help. Mohinder wasn’t going to allow himself to be fooled anymore. Sylar was draining the last of his patience. He was already tired, hungry and thirsty. Finding some relief from the sun and water was his only priority at the moment.

“Oh, you’d be surprised at what I can do when I want something,” Sylar says with a sidelong glance and a lackadaisical smile that puts Mohinder on edge.

Sylar stops to glance around at the bleak oceanscape before he glances down, face soured by the wet soles of his feet. He lifts a foot and eyes at the sneaker, shaking water droplets off with a resigned murmur.

Mohinder looks to Sylar’s feet, still standing on the surface, though the cuffs of his jeans and sides of his shoes are becoming increasingly wet.

He tilts his head, looking at Mohinder when he settles. “The tide’s high. Do you know why?”

High tide. High, soundless, tide. Mohinder shields his face to look upward. “The moon’s gravity.”

Sylar nods, follows Mohinder’s eyes. “I don’t see it.”

Mohinder frowns and rubs his eyes again. “You can’t see gravity.”

“What about the moon?”

“It’s day,” Mohinder points out irritably.

“Sometimes I don’t see the moon at night,” Sylar says, the impetuousness slapping Mohinder in the face.

“That doesn’t mean it’s not still up there, orbiting the planet. It’s day here, night on the other side of the planet,” he says, gaze shifting back to Sylar.

Sylar pushes his sunglasses atop of his head and nods. “Ah. Makes sense.” He dips the heel of his foot into the water and he pulls the wallet chain from his pocket, light bouncing off the silver that he twines his fingers into.

“So, you didn’t see what it was?” Sylar asks, looking down, tapping the surface of the water with the tip of his shoe, chain jingling.

“See what? It’s difficult when the glare’s so bright,” Mohinder says.

“Really? Well that I can help,” Sylar pulls the glasses from his head and tosses them to Mohinder. He catches them easily and Sylar’s hands are back in his pockets and he’s rocking on his heels, nascent grin threatening the corners of his mouth.

“What about you?” Mohinder asks, fingers curled loosely around the frames, remembering something about Greeks bearing gifts.

Sylar shrugs but realization quickly lights his face and he rummages into a back pocket, wallet chain jingling while he digs. Another half-smile splashes across his face as his hands reappear with a second pair of sunglasses that he’s careful to open.

“Got a good deal on these recently,” he says, holding a pair of transition sunglasses up to the light. He waits until they darken accordingly before he slides them onto his face. He takes a moment to straighten them on his nose and looks at Mohinder, dark eyebrows cresting his face.

“How do I look?”

Mohinder isn’t sure of how to respond to the odd question, so he merely stares.

Sylar clasps his hands together and grins. “Good, great. These are what I need right about now,” he says, turning to face the sun.

“Anyway,” he says, taking a deep breath. He’s smiling when he looks at Mohinder. “All you can do is take care of yourself. You can’t worry about the world because you can’t count on people not to screw things up,” Sylar says.

“What?” Mohinder asks as Sylar begins walking away. “Where are you going?”

“Things to do, places to be. Maybe save the day. Hope those help,” he says, motioning with his chin. Mohinder looks to the sunglasses still in his hands, plastic warmed by the sun. When he looks up, Sylar’s gone. Mohinder looks around but it’s only him again, left alone in the nothingness.

Mohinder traces the leg of the sunglasses and looks around. It’s felt like hours, but the sun was still high and bright, shamelessly reflecting off the water, contributing to Mohinder’s personal hell. He folds the glasses up but he has no pocket to keep them, so he unfolds them again and holds them in front of his face, looking through the darkened lenses from a distance. He regards the blinding oceanscape for a moment longer before giving in and slides the sunglasses onto his face. He blinks several times but even with tinted vision he doesn't see any distinctive movement beneath the churning waves.

Mohinder throws a look over his shoulder. Nothing to his left, nothing to his right. He turns back and begins walking straight ahead, feet sloshing through waves that make no sound of their own accord, no longer sinking as he moves. It's not until a short distance that he realizes the cold isn't bothering him any longer, as if he's adjusted to the icy temperature. Mohinder pauses and looks around, for a new direction to go, a place to see. There's still nothing, just the blank horizon shaded by his sunglasses and the water lapping at his feet. He stares down into the choppy waters, thinking that he'll be able to see beneath the surface and figure out what was down there-—an answer, just out of his reach. Now he can get a better look.

Mohinder takes another deep breath and continues walking across the ocean.


End file.
